


Spark

by sparkysparky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College AU, M/M, magic addiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:47:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkysparky/pseuds/sparkysparky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is in over his head at college, but doesn't realize it until it's almost to late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spark

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first round of the [Teen Wolf Reverse Bang](http://twreversebang.livejournal.com/). The wonderful puckboum's [art](http://puckboum.livejournal.com/5913.html) served as the inspiration. Make sure to stop by her masterpost and leave ALL THE LOVE. See the end of the work for more notes.
> 
> (The second half of this fic will be posted tomorrow, because I'm a failboat)

The professor’s office is empty when Stiles arrives, but the door is open so he lets himself in. It’s a cluttered space, too small for the number of books and trinkets piled on everywhere up to and including the floor. There’s no place to sit, and Stiles has never been good at just standing around. He’s left his phone at home and there’s just so long he can stare at the wall worrying over what Professor Rathborne wants before he drives himself mad. Which is how he finds himself kneeling before a stack of old books, running reverent fingertips over incomprehensible titles.

They’re all in languages Stiles doesn’t know (so anything that isn’t English or a form of Latin), but he can tell they’re important. Special. A few could even be termed ancient. They’re the type of books one would expect to find in the Forbidden section of Hogwarts, except this is Berkeley not Hogwarts, and as far as Stiles knows there is no Forbidden section of the Berkeley library. Not that he’s found in his three years and counting anyway. And he’s tried. He had spent a good half of his Freshman year, and not a few hours since, searching for a hidden section of the library. The books in Professor Rathborne’s office are the closest he’s ever come to finding something, even if he can’t understand any of it. 

Impulse control is something that Stiles has never possessed, but he likes to think he’s gotten better over the years. Six years and counting of knowing about werewolves and shifters and ghouls (fucking nasty, disgusting, _evil_ creatures and if he never sees one again it will be too soon) has done wonders for his self control. Wonders, but not miracles, he thinks as he shifts so he’s sitting criss-cross rather than on his knees. The floor is hard, and his knees aren’t what they used to be. Also, he’s found that he gets less of a crick in his neck if he reads this way. Not that he’s planning on reading for long. Just a quick glance through one book, two tops. Three at most, if Rathborne doesn’t show up before then. 

He placates the niggling sense of guilt at rifling through someone else’s belongings by telling himself that Professor Rathborne had left his office unlocked, and the books are _right there_ for Stiles--or anyone else!--to touch. They aren't locked up, or hidden, so that must mean they aren't off limits. Okay, so he’s a terrible person and it keeps him up at nights but they’re _right there_ , out in the open and calling his name. It’s not his fault he was born curious and always eager to learn new things. 

The first book in the pile is pretty boring. In fact, Stiles is almost one hundred percent certain it’s a Hungarian cookbook. An old Hungarian cookbook, but a cookbook just the same. With a sigh he sets it aside and chooses another one. This one is more interesting, if only for the pictures. He pages through with wide eyes, taking in one scene after another. Who knew Satyrs could get up to such things? And with such good looking nymphs too. Way to go, Satyr dude, Stiles thinks, cheeks going hot. He’s watched a lot of porn in his time, but wow, this book could give some of the most kinky studios some tips. This one he sets aside with regret, because his pants are starting to get tight and he doesn’t want to face Professor Rathborne with a hard-on in addition to his guilty conscience. 

He knows the next book is something special from the minute he touches it by the way it just sort of _hums_ in his hands. Which is weird, because books shouldn’t hum but this one does. It’s heavy and _thick_ , warm where his fingers run over the raised ink. The pages are fragile, and he turns them slowly, careful not to tear. He has a brief thought that he should be wearing gloves, like they did in the big archives, but all he has in his bag are his winter gloves, too clumsy for such delicate work. He can’t read any of the book; it’s written in an ancient Mesopotamian language. Did the ancient Mesopotamians have a written language? Sumarian or something, he recalls, not that it does him any good. It’s still just a bunch of lines and shapes, strung together in a way that _could_ be a sentence but could also just be gibberish. Also, it couldn’t possibly be old enough to be Mesopotamian. Couple hundred years, tops, so it was more likely just another archaic form of Latin, or maybe Greek. 

Whatever language it’s written in though he knows it’s not gibberish, not with the way the book seems to sing as he runs his fingers over the pages. The ink warms beneath his fingers, and he gasps as power flows through him. The words snake from the page, swirling over his arms beneath his t-shirt, and then it’s like every synapse in his brain is firing at once. He can’t see, can’t hear, can’t breathe, can’t do anything as the knowledge bursts into his brain; forbidden spells and impossible creatures, ancient ideas better left forgotten. It’s a white hot pain that borders on pleasure, coursing through him, and his mouth drops open in a silent scream. It lasts forever, or maybe just a second, and then he’s falling backward, once more able to breathe. And then everything goes black. 

&&&

When he wakes up, he’s still on the floor in Professor Rathborne’s office and his entire body feels like someone ran him over with a truck. Not just any truck, but a fucking semi. Maybe even a whole fleet of them. He groans, and shoves himself into a sitting position. 

Mistake! His head swims and he seriously thinks he’s about to lose his lunch. Breathing deep through his nose, he manages to shove down the nausea by sheer force of will. It's a good thing he’s always been stubborn. He still feels like he’s dying, but at least he won’t make a mess on the Professor’s floor. It would be a shame to ruin the books. On second thought, maybe throwing up on one book in particular wouldn’t be too bad. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Stilinski.” The voice is British, tinged with a vicious sort of amusement. “That was quite an impressive display you put on there. Not many have the spark that particular book needs to awaken.” If Stiles didn’t know better, he’d say there was quite a bit of admiration along with the amusement. Not that it matters, since Rathborne isn't making any sort of sense that Stiles can figure out. 

“Huh?” Not his wittiest comeback for sure, but at the moment he’s using all his energy not keel over and die. He deserves an award for that, thank you very much. “I mean, sorry. I didn’t mean...”

“Oh come now. Do us both a favor and don’t lie to me, Mr. Stilinski. We both know you very much meant to, though it’s clear you didn’t think things through. That seems to be quite a pattern with you.” 

There is the sound of papers being flipped through, and Stiles flushes thinking of what might be in a file with his name on it. Excellent grades, but also a long history of behavior issues. Did college advisors have access to those sorts of things? Not that Professor Rathborne needed more evidence that Stiles had been a problem child after what had just gone down. 

“Dr. Deaton had a lot to say about your lack of foresight.” 

“Yeah well....wait, Dr. Deaton?” How did Professor Rathborne know Dr. Deaton? “I thought I was here for an academic counseling session?”

“You are here for an academic counseling session, but you’ll find that my interests also lie...outside the University’s curriculum.” Professor Rathborne stands and comes around the desk, hauling Stiles up and shoving him into a chair. There’s a wiry strength to the Professor, one belied by the professor’s slim frame. “Our community is small, Mr. Stilinski. Do you think I take no notice of new magic users when they come into my territory? That would be incredibly ignorant of me.” 

Stiles blinks at the professor, looking like nothing so much as an owl, as his head slowly clears. “You’re...a wizard?” Stiles has to admit, Rathborne doesn’t _look_ like a wizard, though to be honest neither does Dr. Deaton. The professor could be anywhere from forty to sixty, dark hair just starting to go silver at the temples. He’s whipcord thin but strong, as Stiles has already noticed. It’s his eyes that say more than anything though, dark swirls of knowledge in a pale face. 

“Wizard is such a...misleading term,” Professor Rathborne says, an enigmatic grin crossing his lips. “I prefer to think of it as using the tools with which I am equipped to yield great power.” 

Stiles blinks, working his way through that complex sentence without much luck. “Uh, okay?” He hates how unsure he sounds, but this entire exchange has left him seriously off balance. 

Rathborne sighs, as if Stiles is trying his patience. Which is possibly true. Stiles has made trying patience into an artform. Just ask anyone. “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on? Because dude, whatever happened with that book was insane. It’s like it downloaded itself into my brain.” Maybe it’s not the smartest thing to go around calling your academic advisor (and possible wizard mentor?) dude, but again. Impulse control. Stiles doesn’t have it. 

“That’s because, in a sense, it did. The book has the power to connect with someone who possesses the power to absorb the information. A spark, if you will, to ignite an exchange of information. Complicated bit of spellwork, created by Monks in the tenth century.” 

Stiles gawked at the professor. “That’s like...a thousand years ago! That book can’t possibly be that old.” Sure, he’d thought it looked ancient, but he was figuring on a couple of centuries at most, not an entire millenia! “Du...Professor, you can’t just leave thousand year old books lying around on the floor! Anyone could stumble in and like, destroy a piece of history!” He’s ignoring the fact that he’d almost done just that. That was different. He has a spark. (He’s also ignoring the fact that until a minute ago he hadn’t known that.) 

“Ah, but just anyone _didn’t_ walk in and almost destroy a piece of history,” Rathborne pointed out, the ever infuriating smirk back in place. “ _You_ , Mr. Stilinski, wandered in and almost destroyed a piece of history. However, I think everything worked out all right, don’t you? At the very least I now know that Deaton wasn’t wasting my time by suggesting I break my no-undergrad rule and take you on as an advisee.” 

Stiles blinks, and feels the tips of his ears warm up. “Really? Even though I invaded your privacy, passed out on your floor and called you dude, you’re still willing to take me on?” Despite his continued confusion, Stiles wants more than anything to stay on and figure things out. Now that his head has stopped pounding quite so much, it’s a mess of new information – spells, mostly – that he can’t do anything with without being taught _how_. 

“Really, Mr. Stilinski. Now, I have class to get to and so do you. I’ll email you with a schedule, and I expect to see you back here this evening. We have a lot to discuss.” 

&&&

The rest of the semester flies by. It’s a blur of coursework, mentoring sessions with Rathborne and carving a place for himself in the small group of magic users--they call themselves adepts--that Rathborne introduces him to. There are a dozen or so men and women in the area who sometimes get together to do spells, or share knowledge. They’re not a exactly a coven, but they are close-knit and it takes several weeks before they trust that Stiles isn’t just some college kid experimenting. They’re impressed with how fast he picks up on things, and when he tells them he’s killed a ghoul with just his belief and a handful of mountain ash (he leaves out the werewolves and anyway, he _did_ do most of the work that time) they’re more willing to accept him into the group. 

Several of the adepts are about his age, and he finds himself spending most of his time when he’s not in class or with Rathborne with them. He’s made a few friends since coming to Berkeley, but none who know about the supernatural. They’re good for study groups or pub crawls, but there has never been anyone he could discuss the finer aspects of transmogrification with. It’s nice, having a group again. He misses the pack, but in some ways this is even better. 

There are also Skype dates with Scott where he spends more time pretending to listen than actually listening. He should feel guilty, but things in Beacon Hills are quiet for once and nowhere near as interesting as the things Stiles is learning from Rathborne. So he ignores the hurt and somewhat concerned expression Scott gives him, focusing his energies on memorizing the rules of transmogrification and the twelve uses of newt eyes. (Hint: one use has to do with sexual energy and he really never wants to know more than that. Ever.) 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Scott asks him during one Skype session in early May. Finals are coming up for both of them, but Scott is more interested in Stiles’ magic training than his animal behavior exam. It’s about the fifth time he’s asked, and Stiles doesn’t know why he expects a different answer this time around. “I just don’t think it’s safe playing around with magic. Deaton...”

“Deaton’s the one who told Rathborne to mentor me,” Stiles says, distracted by a particularly interesting passage on purification rituals in the latest book he’s reading. He itches to try it out, can feel the magic pushing against his veins in an attempt to break free. “Stop worrying, Scott. I promise, I’m being careful. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” He’s never been more grateful that werewolves can’t pick up heart rates over Skype, because maybe Stiles isn’t being the most truthful right now. He’s being _mostly_ truthful, that counts for something right? 

Scott sighs, and opens his mouth to voice another objection so Stiles brings up Allison in an attempt to distract him. It works, and they spend the last half of their conversation debating the merits of jewelry versus a new bow for an anniversary present. Stiles is firmly on the side of jewelry, because he feels like giving Allison a bow and arrow set for an anniversary present would be like giving someone a vacuum or new tires. 

“You never give anyone a present that they’d buy for themselves, especially someone you want to see naked again in the near future.” Not that he likes to think about Allison and Scott’s naked times, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices. 

Scott nods, and soon after that they say goodnight and end the session. There’s two weeks to the end of the semester, and then Stiles will go home to Beacon Hills for the summer. Scott will see how awesome it is that Stiles is doing all this magic now. He’ll be able to help the pack out, without being the frail human liability. There’s so much more he’ll be able to do now, he already can’t wait to show them the protection runes he’s devised. 

&&&

The night before he leaves to go home, Stiles gets a tattoo. Actually, he gets a series of tattoos that run down his spine. He designs it himself, a string of runes for focus and protection, imbued with a tiny spark of power. He has Monica, tattoo artist and magical badass, do the actual tattoo. 

It takes a long time. At first all he’s aware of is the pain. But Monica’s hands are warm and gentle, and by the end Stiles feels like he’s floating. Endorphins chase away the pain, and the magic singsthrough him. The runes are a warm presence down his back, and turn white-hot when he tries a light summoning spell. 

“Wow,” he whispers, a euphoric grin on his face. He’s still lying on the table, propped up just enough to guide the light from his fingers to the corner of the room, where the spell dissipates. “Trippy.” 

“Bitchin’ high, right?” Monica wears a knowing expression, and runs her hands down his back, tracing over her work. It sends fissions of pleasure through him, and he arches under her touch. She laughs, and takes her hands away. “Okay Stilinski, off my table. I have real paying customers to see.”

Stiles groans, but rolls off the table gracelessly. He stumbles, but catches himself before he falls. “You’re a heartless woman,” he says as he’s pulling on his shirt. “I hope you know that.” 

“Goodbye, Stiles. I’ll see you after break. Email me if you have any stupid ideas and I’ll talk you out of them.” 

“More like you’ll talk me into them.” 

She laughs again and shoves him out the door. Stiles laughs to himself, and then heads in the direction of Rathborne’s office. They have one last scheduled session before Stiles leaves for the summer. He expects the professor has a boatload of “homework” for him. He can’t imagine going three months without magic. More than that, he doesn’t want to. 

Magic is a part of him now, he can feel it growing everyday. 

The professor is already in his office when Stiles arrives, and he grins as Stiles comes in. “On time for once. I am impressed Mr. Stilinski.” He waves Stiles into a seat. “Now, let’s get down to business, shall we?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Professor Rathborne is strongly inspired by Ethan Rayne of Buffy fame. I've also borrowed from all sorts of canons for the magic info (Buffy, Charmed, Harry Potter, mythology), so if you recognize something it's probably from there. This fic wanted to be 500 different things, all of them 18x longer and better than what I managed to write. Thanks to Ptera for the beta, any remaining mistakes are my own.


End file.
